


Heaven To Touch

by mia_ugly



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 10 Things I Hate About You Fusion, First Times, M/M, Slight Canon Divergence, Slow Burn, Tags May Change, for something completely different, like the sea baby, pining throughout history, touch-starved crowley
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:15:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23603647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mia_ugly/pseuds/mia_ugly
Summary: “Seduction, of course, is an option,” Beelzebub continues, oblivious to Crowley’s broken brain. “We would like to see him fall. How you get there is unimportant.”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 182
Kudos: 719
Collections: Good Omens Rom Com Event





	1. the way you talk to me

**Author's Note:**

> This first post is a shorter one, but there's more on the way, and it takes a village for me to write a paragraph. Thank you to @glowcrizzle for the endless patience and gentle wrangling, and to @ineffably-effable and @themoonmothwrites for their extremely kind and extremely helpful feedback. I don't deserve any of you.
> 
> Here's a weird idea: what if they pine throughout history and then they bang? Hey? Is that something? That could be something, maybe.

_**Prologue:** _

_ A love story has to start somewhere. _

_ You might think it’s the first meeting, the first time eyes lock over the threshold of an apartment, or across a room, or above the rim of a wine glass.  _

_ For some stories, this is true.  _

_ Others start differently: the first words spoken, the first few letters scratched out on parchment (the “hello”, the “dear”, the “to whom it may...”) or a touch (the edge of your palm against mine. The moth of your pulse, blue and fluttering in your wrist). _

_ Sometimes the story starts years after the fact, its edges worn smooth with friendship and suddenly catching the light. Catching fire. _

_ And sometimes a love story starts with the Archangel Gabriel coming down to Hell to act like a complete Bag of Dicks (Iook, I didn’t say every beginning was a winner). _

“What about - that, er - fine individual?” 

This is not the first thing the Archangel says. 

No, he has been talking to Beelzebub, Prince of Hell, for a long, long time (they can still remember the blistering, unending fall from Heaven. Somehow, this conversation feels longer).

They’ve been meeting on and off for ages, and Beelzebub could put an end to it - and would, gladly - if Gabriel didn’t have the tendency to give away key strategic information under the guise of bragging and superiority. All Beelzebub has to do is nod and pretend to be interested. It isn’t a bad bargain, though it feels increasingly less fair as time goes on.

Today, Gabriel starts by describing the Garden. Veers off towards the Great Plan, takes a left turn at how amusing humans are (“if slightly - ugh - corporeal.”) He monologues for a bit, as he is wont to do on these little “visits” of his, while Beelzebub grinds their teeth and sucks their gums and wonders at the Almighty’s judgement that this absolute prick still bends Her ear.

The monologue moves toward the differences between Angels and Demons, and how steadfast and undeterrable God’s Soldiers are, and how She’s even sent a  _ Principality _ to guard the Eastern Gate, the best of the best of the best of the best (Beelzebub bites down so hard that one of their molars cracks; they swallow back the pain and the pieces of it).

And they don’t mean to say anything. They aren’t planning on saying anything; Gabriel will run his mouth for ages, and there’s more to be gained in listening.

But even a Prince of Hell has their limits.

“Don’t know if your people are as untouchable as all that,” Beelzebub mutters, and Gabriel stutters to a surprised halt.

“Well. Haha. It isn’t about being untouchable. It’s about being blessed with higher purpose, and an unwavering faith in God’s perfect judgement and love -”

“Unwavering, eh?” Beelzebub says, as much to shut Gabriel up again as anything else. “Care to prove it?”

Which brings us here: Gabriel gesturing toward the pale-haired, lizard-skinned demon licking the walls (someone should really put a sign up).

“Mammon? No,” Beez says.

“No?”

“I’m not sending her upstairs. She’s too - hungry.”

“In Heaven we'd call that ‘driven’ and it’s the sort of attitude we reward-”

“For meat. Flesh.” Beelzebub shouldn’t be so delighted by the violence with which Gabriel recoils, but they’ve got little enough amusement in Hell. “There’s only the two humans, right? Doesn’t leave much to spare. Though I guess they don’t each need two arms -”

“I take your point, Mammon’s out.” The Archangel tosses his long, ringletty hair in a move that’s certainly been practiced in front of a mirror, and makes a show of scanning through the writhing crowds of demons. What are they writhing for? As soon as this idiot’s gone, Beelzebub is going to have a strong word about time theft. “That one, then. That one’s rather - erm. That is -”

“What.”

“Not - terrible to look at. Might give our team a false sense of security, lure them in.”

“Nisroch’s an idiot. Can’t even get their spines right, I’m not sending them.”

“Didn’t you imply that any of your number could lead mine astray?”

“They could, but I’d rather it not take another millenium. Things to do.” Beelzebub searches the crowd until their eyes catch on a tumble of flame-bright hair. The demon it belongs to seems to be using some sort of bladed implement to carve into the wall while doing a terrible job of looking like he isn’t.

At least he’s not licking it (though they still make a note to have him tortured later).

“What about - him?” Beelzebub gestures toward the sharp-edged, black-limbed figure.

“Who - oh no. No. No no no.” The Archangel’s face goes grey, and Beelzebub knows they’ve got a winner. “I know him. No, don’t look at him, he’s -”

“He’s what.”

“Let’s just say I’m not surprised to see him - down here.” Gabriel turns toward Beelzebub, shielding his mouth with his hand. “I heard he was involved with that - dinosaur thing. The asteroid, remember. Dropped one just to see what would happen.”

“Really.”

“Wacked out on stardust at the time,” Gabriel continues. “Or so I’ve heard.” 

Beelzebub ignores ‘wacked out’ for the moment, only cringes slightly.

“I heard that he sold it.” Dagon appears over Beelzebub’s shoulder, eel-like tongue flicking out as she hisses the words. “Stardust. I heard that Crawly -“

“This is a closed meeting,” Gabriel says tightly and Dagon pisses off, gets back to her writhing or whatever. “Though I heard that too.”

Beelzebub studies the flash of knife in the demon’s hand, the covert scratchings that mark the walls of Hell (the first word might be “unionize”? Beelzebub doesn’t know what it means, but it doesn’t sound good.)

“Crawly,” the Archangel continues. “Is that what he calls himself down here? Fitting.”

Crawly. Something jogs loose in Beelzebub’s memory. 

“Didn’t he - eat a live duck? Was that -” 

“Everything but the beak and feet.” Gabriel nods grimly. “He’ll just make a mess of things. Too unpredictable. Frankly -”

“He’s our guy,” Beelzebub decides. And then they smile.

It’s just to irritate Gabriel, really. They don’t expect it to work quite so well.

And much later, after the sword has been given away and the humans are loose in the desert, Gabriel will say the demon got lucky. It could never happen again, something was off, maybe it was the heat that made the Principality act so irrationally. And Beelzebub will gnash their teeth some more, wiggling them loose until their gums are bleeding and flies are swarming like thunderclouds around their head.

And then. 

They’ll have an idea.

**1.** **the way you talk to me**

_ A love story has to start somewhere.  _

_ End somewhere too. _

_ It’s all right, though; everything ends, doesn’t it? You live six thousand years, you personally witness the rise and fall of empires, time starts to lose a bit of its meaning. Everything ends (except you, you bloody cockroach, you just keep on scuttling). _

_ But it’s all right. Or it isn’t all right. It just is. _

_ Crowley climbs the fire escape to the roof of his flat, which is no easy feat in skinny jeans with a dwindling bottle of bourbon in one hand. It’s still worth it to see the occasional pinprick of light, the stars doing their damnedest to reach him through the clouds. Never much for stargazing in London, but this is his reward, right?  _

_ Well done, Crowley. You’ve broken your own heart, have some fucking stars. _

_ He wants to bite down on his bottom lip, see if he can make his teeth touch. He wants to polish off the bottle until the world spins so quickly he falls off the roof. Falling off the roof would be okay. He’s fallen before. _

_ He wants - _

_ He wants something that he isn't going to get. Something beautiful that he's smashed like crockery and tossed into the bin. _

_ Crowley lies on his back, staring up at the sky above him, squinting for constellations. What did Adam and Eve call those first ones? The tree? The lovers? _

_ ("How romantic." There's an angel's voice in his ear, and the bite of cinnamon on his tongue.) _

_ Crowley liked the humans, even back then. Liked the way they liked stars. Liked the way they told stories about them, right from the start. It’s a very human thing, isn’t it. See a couple of balls of burning gas billions of miles away, lie in the dark and make up some nonsense about it. (Maybe with your head on someone’s chest. Maybe with their hands in your hair. Maybe -) _

_ Yeah, that’s enough of that. _

_ Crowley isn't human. He isn't an angel anymore and he’s a wretched bloody excuse for a demon.  _

_ But he tries the whole story thing now.  _

_ This one starts in a garden. _

*

The first time he sees Aziraphale something goes wrong with Crawly’s throat (he’s still Crawly then, and he doesn’t know the angel’s name. Just knows that he is parchment-haired and blue eyed and fretting like anything. And that looking at him makes Crawly feel like choking). 

Might have something to do with air, maybe, or too much sun or - physics. Transforming from a snake in one bloody go has got to do a number on his molecular structure (molecules, hey? That’s a whole thing, or it will be. Time works differently for the ethereal and the occult; Crawly has a vague awareness of Jean Perrin, a misty sort of knowledge of the first automobile, a general understanding that one day a song called “Dancing On My Own” is going to be, as the kids will say, a ‘banger.’ He exists in one time and all times, stretching like an ocean pier as far as the eye can see into the green waters of distant and not so distant futures. But.)

But.

He doesn’t expect the throat thing. The ache beneath his skin, like the first time he tried to gasp sulphuric air, a scalding pain lodged deep in the heart of him.

He doesn’t expect the angel to smile at him,“Oh thank you,” like Crawly’s done anything in his life worth being looked at like that. 

He doesn’t expect Aziraphale.

After the storm ends, after Crawly spends a seemingly endless span of time listening to the pattering of raindrops on feathers above his head, he and the angel wander around a bit. The garden’s quiet without the humans in it, though it’s still green and verdant - and -

_ Lush, _ Crawly thinks, looking at the angel beside him. Then he wonders where that word came from, and why it fits like a ring on his finger.

“They are rather lovely, aren’t they,” the angel says quietly as the night sinks into darkness, and a prickle of starlight starts to scatter overhead. “The stars. I rarely see them from this angle.”

Crowley wants to preen at that, wants to tell him, “I did that one, and those, and that one there.” Wants to tell him about the North Star - he always loved binary systems, thought they had a bit of dramatic flair, and he was a fan of dramatic flair, even back then. Before - 

Well. 

Before it all went pear-shaped.

Being damned isn’t all that bad (you get used to it). It’s the falling that did a number on him - the way it felt, and the way it bloody smelled. The rotten reek of feathers burning up through sheer velocity, the wrenching metal of the impact. Like he was just overripe fruit falling from a tree, getting pulp and seeds everywhere.

So Crawly doesn’t say any of it to the angel. Doesn’t talk about pulling strands of hydrogen and helium from the ether and knitting it together like a cosmic pair of mittens. He doesn’t like to remind anyone of who he was back then. 

“Humans seemed to like ‘em,” he says instead, and it’s true. At night when Adam laid on his back and Eve rested her head on his stomach, Crawly heard them telling star stories to each other. Asking questions about the lights in the dark. Eve thought they were fish swimming through a great black lake. Adam thought they were the eyes of the many-faced God watching over them. (Crawly had snaked through the gnarled roots in the garden around them, tasting the air and listening. He liked what he heard. Liked that his work was being appreciated.)

“They thought that one was a tree.”

“A tree?” The angel cranes his head up, considering the sky. Crawly watches him from the corner of his bile-yellow eyes. “Oh! I see. Those could be branches there.”

“To be fair, I think it’s meant to be a dragon. But they don’t know about those yet.”

“Yes, I - suppose not.”

“And that one - Eve thought it was a man and a woman. The lovers, she called it.”

“How romantic,” the angel says, and then does this thing where the tips of his ears and cheekbones change colour - turn pink as a climbing rose (Crawly has a vague knowledge of roses and a generalized sense of dread that - centuries from now - he’s going to have Opinions on them).

He ends up slithering back down to Hell feeling rather prickly and off balance, like he’s tied up with ribbons of static electricity. Like any second, lightning is going to strike the ground beneath his feet, and he hasn’t even seen lightning yet, but he knows it’s coming for him.

The back of his neck itches, and every time he closes his eyes he sees that pale pink flush of colour, traveling like hands over an angel’s skin. And when he reaches the gates, wouldn’t you fucking know it, Dagon’s waiting for him.

“Boss wants to see you.” 

“Which boss,” Crawly asks, and Dagon says, “You should be honoured, Snake,” and leaves it.

Luckily enough, when he’s led into one of the throne rooms, it’s The Prince that’s waiting for him, and not the other guy.

“The demon Crawly.” 

Beelzebub is sprawled on their twisted metal throne. Their hands are stained red with - something thicker than blood, and there’s a pile of small bones at their feet. As Crawly watches, a fly crawls slowly into their nostril and Beelzebub blinks, snorts, and glares at him. “That wazzz unexpected.”

“Yeah, right?”  _ Don’t fucking panic, be cool, be cool. _ “The apple thing was a bit of luck, eh?”

“It was well done.” Beelzebub chews idly on whatever it is they’re eating, strings of sinew snapping as they pull meat away from the bone. “We have taken note.”

“Always nice to be, uh, noticed.” It’s not though, not when it’s Hell. It’s rather the opposite of nice, and alarm bells should’ve been ringing the moment they told him to ‘make some trouble.’

“How would you like to be - up there regularly?”

(Something strange happens to Crawly’s throat. Like he can’t get enough air. Like a pale-haired angel is smiling at him, a smile he feels in his mouth.)

“What like - in the garden?” That might be okay. It’d get him out of here, which is the important thing, and he’s kinda fascinated by the whole greenery bit. The curl of vines, the wet slap of moss. He wonders if he could ever grow something himself, start it as a seedling and watch it blossom. Not down here - not enough light down here - but if he was up top -

“I’m thinking more broadly,” Beelzebub says between mouthfuls. “Now that the humans have left Eden, things will be happening. We’ll need someone to keep an eye out.”

This is a test. A trick. Crawly holds the “yes” and the “please” back, keeps it under his tongue like a sublingual pill.

“Courssse,” he says instead, like he isn’t bothered either way. Throws a drawl over it, lets the snake out a bit. “If that’s what you want.”

“And the angel you were speaking to -” 

(“What about that one? Right there. Is it part of the dragon? Or, um, the - tree?”

“Dunno. Just a star really.”

The angel laughs, and Crawly bites down on an expression he’s pretty sure his mouth has never made before.)

“Which angel? The fussy one?” As if he doesn’t know, as if the rest wouldn’t have looked at him like something to be scraped off the bottom of their sandals. 

“The Principality Aziraphale.” 

The throat thing happens again (a fucking Principality sheltered Crawly from the first storm. A Principality smiled at Crawly like he was an angel still, gave away a flaming sword to two humans cast out from a garden).

“We would like you to - get close to him.”

“Haha, yeah, all right.” He long ago perfected the art of prattling mindlessly while the wheels turn, while he pieces things together (what this could cost him and what he can afford) _. _ “I’ll just ring him up, invite him over. Expect he’ll drop by for tea, will he?”

Beelzebub stares unblinkingly at him until he goes silent.

“Yeah, um.” He scratches the back of his neck, can’t seem to stop his hands from moving. “How close are we talking?”

Beelzebub snorts. “You don’t have to  _ fuck _ him, if that’zzz what you’re asking.”

That had absolutely not been what Crawly was asking. 

His mind whites out for a moment. Once he regains his capacity for thought (such as it is) he knows he stammers something, a collection of syllables that do not equal a word. He wouldn’t - he hadn’t been - could he even  _ do  _ that? Is that something - for fuck’s sake - it’s not like an angel, a  _ Principality _ would give him a bloody chance to - even if Crawly put in the effort - it’s - it’s just - not - 

He hadn’t been -

Sorry, what was the question?

“Seduction, of course, is an option,” Beelzebub continues, oblivious to Crawly’s broken brain. “We would like to see him fall. How you get there is unimportant.”

Crawly’s still hung up on the last bit ( _ it’s not - he wouldn’t - _ running over and over in his head like a record skipping. At the mention of ‘falling’ the needle jolts slightly, fits back into the groove).

“You want him to - fall.” 

He almost asks ‘why.’ Almost. Luckily, his mouth is smarter than his brain, and his teeth click together just in time. You don’t ask Hell why it does anything. In Heaven that sort of thing got you catapulted out; you’d think Hell would have more of an open door policy with management, but the door is still closed, only now it’s covered with spikes. 

Crawly still wants to ask, too curious for his own good. Why that angel, an angel who smiles and frets, who likes humans and likes stars and is _ kind _ ? 

“Ooookay,” he says instead, buying time. “Hmm. Okay. Let’s think about this.” His hands rattle, his skin itches. “I mean - I’m gonna need some intel, won’t I? About the angel, what he’s up to. What he likes and that.”

Beelzebub gives a grudging nod.

“And. And I’m gonna need a story. Something to explain what I’m doing up there. And I’ll have to acclimate myself, feel the place out. Big world, lots about to happen. Be a dead giveaway if I didn’t know the ins and out of -”

“ _ **DID YOU THINK THIS WAS A NEGOTIATION,**_ _**DEMON** _ ?” Beelzebub’s voice suddenly fills the whole of Crawly’s skull. The flies increased by thousands, swarming the throne like a thunder cloud, spilling from Beelzebub’s shoulders like a cape. “ _ **YOU DO NOT MAKE DEMANDZZZ OF HELL.**_ ”

“Not demands.” Crawly forces his knees to stay locked. “Course not, haha, nothing like that, your - er - Excellence.”

“Highness.”

“Your Highness. Only trying to help me - help you.” He keeps talking, keeps fluttering his hands like it’s a card trick and he’s got aces up both his sleeves. “Just want to do things right. Don’t want to let you down.”

“You  _ won’t _ ,” Beelzebub promises. Somehow they’re able to make even that reassurance sound like a threat. Probably because it is one.

“Course not,” Crawly says again, and the words come out slightly hoarse and more than a little unsteady. He swallows and swallows again, gives his throat something to do instead of screaming, while Beelzebub stares at him. It’s the kind of stare that feels like being flayed alive. Flies cluster at the corner of their mouth. Crawly waits. And waits. 

He finally manages a smile, and can’t imagine how stupid it probably looks.

“Very well.” Beelzebub draws the words out like they’re trying to break ribs, but thank fuck, they aren’t staring at him anymore. “See to it that the angel falls, and we will work out a permanent arrangement for you.  _ Up there.” _

Crawly’s mind trips and falls down the stairs at the word ‘permanent’ but he shrugs like it doesn’t matter one way or the other. And though his legs give out only a few moments after he leaves the throne room, he feels less pleased than he expected about getting his way.

For days following, he is haunted by pink. When he closes his eyes he still sees that slow-traveling colour, and in moments of silence he hears the timbre of an angel’s voice, saying “oh thank you,” like the words are a story he deserves to be told.

Crawly thinks about stars, and tries not to listen.

  
  



	2. the way you cut your hair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks forever to @glowcrizzle, @themoonmothwrites and @ineffably-effable for being my eyes and my brain and my heart and my tangential attention to grammar, and making this an actually somewhat readable story. Best betas ever.
> 
> CW for flies. And a lot of wine. And Golgotha. So. You know.

_ Let’s try this again. _

_ It sounds too much like a tragedy, and Crowley avoids those when he can help it. Too many in real life. Let’s start the story over, hope this time that there might be a happy ending.  _

_Make it a fairytale. Maybe._ _ Crowley’s heard enough of them. Sat cloaked in firelight rubbing his hands against the cold while old men whispered of fairy rings, and the dangers of not leaving a pin behind when you go walking through the woods, and the Great Beast and the Witch and the Miller’s Daughter. He has pulled up a stool in taverns to listen to the talk of monsters lurking in shadows, snatching disobedient children from their beds. Sat in the salons of Paris decades later when fairytales became fashionable again, and all the artsy so and so’s were telling them to each other over the lace edges of fans, or through velvet-gloved fingers.  _

_ Not as many happy endings as you’d think in fairytales. Mostly blood, at least in the proper ones. Crowley doesn’t really like those as much as the others, the stories that were watered-down, soft and gentle around the edges. The stories where everything ended in pink petals and true love and no one was ever really ugly (bony shouldered, spider-legged in black denim) they were just under a dreadful curse.  _

_ No one ever really died, they were just sleeping. Waiting to be kissed. _

_ Give him a fantasy like that, and he’ll cling to it until it’s torn out of his shredded palms. He’s a romantic down in the soft caramel filling of him, and he hates it. It’s a thing he wishes he didn’t know about himself, and shit - he’s too drunk to be this introspective (or too introspective to be this drunk, take your pick). _

_ There are sounds of traffic from the streets around him, the occasional siren or angry blare of a horn. Even at this late hour, London is never quiet. Crowley usually likes that about it, likes that the noise can drown out the rattling narrative in his head. But tonight it’s just more noise. Noise all the way down. _

_ So. He swigs more bourbon, watches the sky. It's what he does best. _

_ So.  _

_ If it was a fairytale, how would it go? There’d be a handsome prince. Crowley’s got one of those. Or he had one. _

_There would be sidekicks for a bit of comic relief, maybe - talking animals, birds or squirrels or some type of vermin. A singing candelabra? No, shit - save it for the movie version._

_ There’d be monsters, though, and that’s certain. Crowley’s got too many of them to count (the worst of the lot is lying drunk off his tit on the roof of a flat in Mayfair). _

_ And there’d be a kiss. _

_ Not for a while yet. Too soon for that sort of thing. But perhaps -  _

_ Crowley shivers even though the palms of his hands are suddenly warm. _

_ Perhaps - a touch. _

*

So the demon Crawly leaves Hell.

For a few centuries, Hell actually leaves him alone. Mostly. He’s acclimatising, like he tells them: figuring out the corporeal business, getting a sense of things (really what he’s doing is spending a lot of time outdoors. Drinking in the pale sky, breathing in the damp scent of plants. It’s a damn ( _ ha! _ ) sight better than Hell, but it’s different than Heaven as well. He can’t say better, he shouldn’t say ‘better’ - but Satan, the air smells good).

Of course, he’s not off the hook forever, and the bosses send him the odd check-in (blood oozing out of a stone, scratches on the inside of his wrists) asking for a report, directing him toward a specific temptation. There aren’t that many humans kicking about, so for a while the work is thin on the ground. He hears mention of Aziraphale from time to time, gets the odd prickle of a miracle nearby, but their paths don’t cross.

Crawly doesn’t  _ exactly _ try to make them. 

He won’t pretend otherwise, can’t deny that there’s a part of him that hopes Hell’s forgotten about the whole ‘make the angel fall’ arrangement. Maybe Beelzebub’s been distracted by torturing bunnies or something, put Crawly right out of their rotten little head. 

For a while, Crawly puts the angel out of his head too.

But then their paths  _ do _ cross. There are storm clouds gathering overhead, and Crawly feels him before he sees him. It’s like a rope being wound around his ankle, pulling him toward the parchment-haired figure standing in front of the Ark. 

He immediately makes a mess of things by knowing the angel’s name (“Hullo Aziraphale!”) and getting slightly ‘tetchy’ about hundreds of drowning children. Aziraphale is more of a righteous twit than he was in the Garden (there is no mention of stars this time) but Crawly remembers when he was the same, remembers eons of not asking questions. He feels a bit - bad for the angel. More than a bit annoyed, but also a bit bad.

Hardly the right background for a seduction, or whatever Beelzebub wants from him. Anyway, he’s busy after that, gathering up kids that somehow didn’t merit the Almighty’s protection, secreting them away on the Ark where he can. And despite his best efforts, he runs into Aziraphale twice more after that. The first time, the angel stumbles across Crawly and a couple of kids on a supply run in the bowels of the ship. It’s late at night, and Crawly usually takes care of whatever they might need, but some of the older kids are getting restless, wanting to help out, and fine - he gets it. Nothing worse than feeling useless. So he lets ‘em come with him, and they take too long and Aziraphale is waiting for them on their way back. He looks at Crawly, and looks at the kids, and he doesn’t say a word.

(Something goes wrong with Crawly’s throat. Might be allergies.)

The second time is on dry (if soggy) land after the whole wretched business is over. Crawly spots Aziraphale in the distance as the Ark is being unloaded. The grim faces of Noah’s children match the angel’s own expression, and Crawly doesn’t really want to talk to him but his mouth and his feet disagree.

“So that’s a rainbow, eh?” he asks, crossing the space between them.“Nice of the Almighty. Really makes the whole thing worthwhile.” 

Aziraphale is silent. 

“There are more kids ‘round here than I expected." That much at least is true. He’s surprised by the number of people that seem to have survived God’s Great Cleansing Deluge or whatever the fuck Heaven’s calling it. “More old folks too. Didn’t think the Ark was  _ that _ crowded.”

There are a bunch of families in tents around campfires, and when he mentions as much to Aziraphale, the angel’s cheeks go that familiar pink.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“No? What about that lot there? Those can’t be Noah’s grandkids, they’re nearly as old as he is.”

“Well.” Aziraphale swallows loudly. “The Almighty certainly can’t object to - the occasional act of mercy.”

“Thought drowning everyone was part of the Ineffable Plan?” Crawly says, even though his corporation is suddenly making it known that he has a heart, and it’s beating like a kickdrum in his chest.

Aziraphale turns and looks at him and there’s a moment where Crawly has the distinct impression that he’s about to say something -  _ else. _

But that moment ends, and Aziraphale’s blue eyes go cold as he turns away. “I can’t expect  _ you  _ to understand the Ineffable Plan, can I?” 

Don’t say it, Crawly thinks, but the word leaves Aziraphale’s mouth anyway.

_ “Demon.” _

Well. 

Not like it isn’t true. Crawly does an elegant flourish of his hand with a bow of parting, smirks like he doesn’t taste something foul at the back of his throat. He starts to walk and he doesn’t stop walking, and he doesn’t know why he doesn’t stop. He can’t relax until there’s a sea and an ocean between himself and the angel, and he’s surrounded by massive elms and pine trees and constellations he doesn’t recognize. 

He can’t really relax even then, but he does like the trees.

By chance he meets up with a band of the Clovis (they don’t call themselves that, of course. Don’t call themselves anything but people, and there are a whole slew of different Gods over there, it’s really something. If Hell asks, he can always say he was sussing out Her competition, but Hell doesn’t ask. Instead, Hell sends him a scroll of merit for his good work ‘thwarting the Great Flood’ or something. Great job, gold star, what could be more devious than saving the lives of children?)

Crawly kicks it with the Clovis for a bit. He mostly hangs out with the women and the kids; they’re always laughing about the colour of his hair, or his eyes. He isn’t used to humans not being scared of the way he looks and the kindness takes some getting used to. He learns how to chip delicate spear points out of jasper or obsidian, learns which plants will bring down a fever, and which ones will prevent a pregnancy, and which ones are poisonous when eaten but can speed up healing when boiled and mashed into a paste. 

Who knew that humans could do their own miracles? Hell of a thing.

Crawly’s kept so busy he barely even thinks about the angel. Puts him right out of his mind (the oddly compelling wobble of his chin. The changeable blue of his eyes.) 

Of course it can’t last. Crawly wakes up one morning to find a message written in scattered twigs outside his tent. Or, he  _ thinks  _ they’re twigs at first, broken and charred black with ashes. It only takes him a moment to realize they’re bones - smooth and clean and white - underneath a thick, squirming layer of flies. 

Ah, fuck.

“ _ You are needed in Jeruzzzzzalem _ .” 

There’s a buzzing in his ear, and Crawly flinches away, swiping at the air. The buzzing starts in his other ear as well, or maybe - maybe it’s in his head. Maybe the flies are in his skull, in his brain.  _ “We have not forgotten you, Crawly. And we have buzzinezzzz for you.” _

“Right. Yeah, of course. Nice to be needed, isn’t it?” Crawly tries to ignore the racing of his pulse, a pulse he doesn’t even need but seems really good at letting him know when he’s terrified. “Just checking out the Almighty’s competition, did you know there are Gods over here that -”

_ “We will expect more progrezzzzz with the angel,”  _ the flies continue, the whine of their voices twining into one horrible chorus.  _ “Or perhapzzzz you would like to explain the delayzzzz in person -” _

“ _Nope,_ nah, no need. What? No. I’m working on - um - what’s called a  _ slow burn _ . It’ll be a big thing in a few millennia, you're gonna love it.” There’s more irate buzzing between his shoulder blades, and Crawly shudders. “But! You know, I was just about to get back to it. Today, in fact. Could’ve saved yourself the trip -”

He’s interrupted by the swarm of flies rising from the scattered bones and dispersing into the air. There's no answer from Beelzebub and Crawly takes a breath and holds it, tries to stop shaking (the bugs creep him out, and that’s the truth. Pitiful for a demon to admit a thing like that, but he could do without seeing flies for a few hundred years. In Hell you witness your fair share of horrors, of course, but it’s the - untidiness that really gets to him).

Crawly reads the bones left behind, and sighs. He says goodbye to the women and the kids. Goodbye to the trees. 

He goes back to the desert, and he meets a very kind young man who is going to come to a very sad end. And when that end finally comes, Crawly is surprised to find Aziraphable standing beside him.

There’s something so pitiful about the man on the cross - and he is a man, in this moment of violence and blood, he’s a man most of all. There’s something equally pitiful about the angel, somehow managing to keep his chin up with screams ringing in both of their ears. It's as if Aziraphale is waiting for a miracle. As if he's waiting for something kind and unexpected and Holy to happen in front of them (all right, maybe Crawly’s projecting a bit. Maybe he’s the one who’s waiting).

“Come to smirk at the poor bugger?”

“I’m not consulted on policy decisions, Crawly.”

“I’ve changed it,” he says suddenly, because you know what,  _ fuck _ the  _ Demon Crawly _ . He doesn’t want to hear that name again (they gave it to him when he fell. Took his old name away, ashed it like a cigarette into the gutter).

“Changed what?”

“My name. Crawly just wasn’t really doing it for me.”

“So what is it now? Mephistopheles? Asmodeus?”

Oh shit. 

_ Fuck _ . 

“Um.” Shit, shit, fuck. 

Crawly immediately has never heard another person’s name in his life. His mind casts forward through time and space, but the only options he can think of are Skylar and Chad and he doesn’t know why, but - both of them sound like the worst. Just the worst.

Aziraphale is staring at him. 

“Cr… _ owley, _ ” he says. 

“Hmm.” Aziraphale looks away, unbothered. 

Well. 

Okay, fine. 

Crowley’s got a bit of a ring to it. Seems almost cool - cooler than  _ Chad _ anyway. He’ll make it work.

After the whole awful business is done, and the screaming has gone from moaning to whimpering to silence, Crowley doesn’t have anything left to offer the angel. The inside of his cheek is bitten raw, and he can only turn his back and walk away. Crawly gets drunk for the first time that night, boiled wine at a filthy inn (that should really be boiling everything and everyone it comes in contact with) but it gets the job done. For a few blessed moments he doesn’t taste blood in his mouth, doesn’t think about what kindness gets you in Heaven. 

He enjoys his first hangover the next morning, which is a fun new experience. Nothing like waking up with a blistering headache and the feeling that your mouth was recently stuffed full of socks by a very nice stranger who then kicked you repeatedly in the stomach.

Also there’s a large grey rat sitting on his chest.

“Argh!” arghs Crowley, flinching as the thing’s beady little eyes come into reluctant focus (he’s got nothing against rats, just surprise ones). 

“Argh!” the rat shrieks as it falls with a thunk to the floor. “Oh, I like that very much. When all I’m tryin’ to do is my job, unlike  _ some demons - _ ”

Crowley scrambles to sit up, pulling back the thin blanket in case there’s more talking rats to be found. He scans the floor, the walls, and that’s when he notices the raven. It’s perched on the edge of the wobbly chair by the bed, shaking its head in disgust. Crowley is too hungover for this (might even be slightly drunk still, whatever, he's charming) and he snaps his fingers for a quick, demonic sobering-up. Never pleasant, but worth it in the end.

“What the Hell are you doing in here?” he manages, not particularly wanting the answer. 

“Here to help you, aren’t we,” says the raven.

“Hell’s orders,” says the rat.

“Help me?” The last thing Crowley wants is more hellthings keeping tabs on him. “Yeah, I’m good. Thanks for the offer, but as you can see I’ve got things sorted.”

The raven and the rat exchange a dubious look. Crowley isn’t one to be side-eyed by  _ vermin -  _ no matter how demonic they may be. He reaches off the edge of the bed and chucks an abandoned sandal at them (his aim’s way off but he tells himself that’s purposeful).

“Charming manners on this one,” grumbles the raven, flapping to get out of the way. “When we’re just trying to help you with the angel.” 

“Full offense, but how exactly are the pair of you going to do that?"

“By tellin’ you where he is,” says the raven.

“And what he likes!” says the rat.

“By doing - wotsit - investigatory research.”

Crowley rubs the ghost of a headache from his temples. He’s got animal-bloody-sidekicks now,  _ wonderful.  _

“Right. So.” He’d kick up more of a fuss - but he has no one but himself to blame for this. He’s the one who’d asked for intel, back in the day. If Hell has assigned him two bottom-tier imps, Crowley should at least try to keep them busy. “Fine. Brilliant. So what does he like?”

The animals blink at him. Crowley blinks back.

“Got to do our research first,” the rat squeaks.

“Been too busy looking for you, haven’t we?” 

“I frankly don't know  _ what _ you’ve been busy doing -"

“We know he’s in Jerusalem,” the raven offers.

“Really? Wow. I only saw him here  _ yesterday _ , never would have guessed." Crowley forces himself out of bed, crosses the room and shoves the grimy window open. “Thanks for your help though. Satan knows what I’d have done without you. Maybe come back when you’ve got something actually useful, there's a thought.”

The raven sniffs in offense but drops to the floor so the rat can crawl up onto its back. Then the pair of them are taking to the air, flapping out of the room. Crowley yanks the window closed behind them as soon as he can.  He watches the black wings fade into the distance, gives a quick ruffle of his hair for any lurking flies. 

Then he leaves the terrible Inn and and goes to find a terrible pub.

By the time he's drunk enough to stand himself, the stars have come out (he tries not to look up at them too much. Not to gaze too long.) Instead he staggers through the streets, mulling through his choices like they're wine. He quite rightly decides that if he’s going to be up here tempting, he may as well get some sin under his belt. It's the rational, reasonable thing to do. So that’s how it goes for a bit; Crowley drifts in and out of winesinks, gambling dens, houses of the illest repute he can find. He tries food now and again and doesn’t really see the point. Tries sleeping and falls in passionate love with it (you can just switch off your mind, it’s the wildest thing. All the constant critical nattering, the background noise of incalculable faults, the odd stray thought of cloud-white hair tucked behind an ear - just gone. Like that, with a snap of your fingers).

Looking back, he might’ve been depressed. Maybe. 

Well! Live and learn.

He doesn’t go in for sex at all. Probably could, he’s got the relevant parts, and it’s no trouble changing things up if he wants to try different configurations. But it’d be kind of a dodgy thing, sleeping with a human - who knows what would happen? Maybe if there was someone he was really gone on or something, but he’s not really in one place long enough for that ( _ You don’t have to fuck him _ , Beelzebub hisses; that sentence still rings like alarm bells, sirens, emergency vehicles racing through Crowley’s brain on their way to a crime scene). 

He gets called on for the odd temptation, but Hell’s got its hands full with the whole Caligula business, and Crowley’s glad enough to stay out of it. He’s heard things. 

They haven’t been pretty. 

So he sins for a bit, has some fun with it, and is mostly left alone. Until one day he wakes up on a beach to find two pairs of beady little eyes peering down at him. 

He can’t really remember how he got there. There’s a pair of clay dice clenched in his hand, and a bruise throbbing at the back of his skull.

“Oh.” He squints against the early morning light, the disgustingly lavender sunrise. “It’s you two.” 

“Don’t sound so thrilled about it,” says the raven.

Crowley forces himself to sit up, reluctantly patches up any bits that need patching. He feels slightly better, but only slightly. Decides to keep the dice for whatever the opposite of sentimental reasons is.

“Sorry, should’ve told you straightaway how much I missed you.”

The raven pecks at his hand in response, and Crowley jerks away.

“Oi. Bloody pests. What do you want?”

“We’ve done our research!” the rat squeaks, with a level of enthusiasm that could almost be considered… cute. 

No,  _ no, _ that’s not going to work for anyone.

“Fine, spectacular. Research. What have you got for me?”

“First thing. It seems the angel - um. Enjoys -”

The animals exchange an uneasy look, and Crowley’s ears prick up a bit. Maybe Aziraphale is more complicated than he thought, maybe he’s got all sorts of secret, deviant, dark desires lurking beneath -

“Food.”

Oh.

“So you’re saying I should - like food.”

“Might make going out for a meal easier,” the raven says.

“And here’s another - er, problem,” the rat continues. “The angel has a certain appreciation for- ” Again, the animals glance at each other. “Um. Aesthetically pleasing. Things.”

“I don’t follow.”

“You know, fine art. Sculpture. Things that are - beautiful.”

Crowley stares at them. 

“All right. So? How is that a problem?”

The rat freezes, only its whiskers twitching. 

“Wait. Are you - telling me I’m not beautiful?”

There’s a brief, awkward silence, before a stuttering song of denial erupts from both animals’ throats.

“Beautiful!”

“Gorgeous!”

“A revelation!”

“No one’s saying -”

“Just letting you know -”

“Would never suggest -”

“Just so long as we’re clear,” Crowley says with a sniff. He’s been assured his hair is very red. That’s probably  _ someone’s _ thing. Somewhere. “All right, what else?”

“He’s in Rome.” The rat still has a tremble in his voice, as well he should.

“No, I can’t - I can’t be seen in Rome.” Too close to the action, Crowley thinks. Bound to attract notice, get roped into some bloody orgy or something.

“But the angel’s there!” The raven tries to perch on Crowley’s shoulder, but Crowley swats it off. He’s not going in for familiars just yet. It's a whole look. “And the bosses are expecting you.  _ Both _ of ‘em.”

At the mention of both bosses, Crowley flinches. Fuck, this is not something he can wriggle out of. He knows it. He just keeps drinking to forget it.

“So I’m supposed to go to Rome and - what - buy him some seafood and show him a painting or something, and that’ll be that?”

The rat shrugs. As much as a rat  _ can  _ shrug anyway. 

"Maybe have a bath first," the raven says. 

"I beg your pardon."

"And do something with that _hair_."

"I'll do something with _your_ hair," Crowley mutters, like a respectable, intimidating and very important demon (his hair isn't that bad. Just needs a wash or four.)

He goes to Rome. 

Slinks into a bar (several baths later) where the rat tells him Aziraphale is drinking alone. Crowley acts appropriately petulant and demonic; he considers laying on the charm, but if anything would make someone like Aziraphale suspicious it would be Crowley’s middling attempts at being seductive. So instead he’s snappish - perhaps more than he intends, and Aziraphale -

Smiles at him.

Calls him by his new name. 

Invites him out for dinner).

“I’ve never eaten an oyster,” Crowley lies, scattering bread crumbs through the forest behind him. He’d actually paid a visit to Petronius’ on his first night in the city (the raven said the angel liked food), slurped down a couple oysters and then called it off.  They were all right. The texture was a bit odd. Nothing to write home about.

“Oh, well, let me  _ tempt  _ you to -“

At that word from Aziraphale’s mouth, Crowley has to turn and look at him. He feels something happening to his face, some sort of unfamiliar expression, and he’s glad he can’t see himself because he has no clue what it’s doing. 

The angel blushes, stammers, frets in response (“Oh, no. No, that’s your job, isn’t it?”) and it’s interesting. 

Aziraphale is interesting. Er - of course he is, Crowley knew that much from their first meeting when the angel gave away his flaming sword and sheltered Crowley from the rain. Aziraphale has always been interesting. Crowley’s not bothered by it. He’d just - forgotten the degree, maybe. 

"Crowley?"

"Uh." They'd been talking. What had they been talking about? "Oysters. Yeah. Sure. Lead on."

So they go for oysters. Crowley doesn’t need to be tempted twice.

The taste hasn’t improved from the night before, but what  _ has  _ improved immeasurably is the company. And  Crowley’s seen people eat, of course. Cramming their mouths full of bread and cheese and meat when they can get it, mashing it all up with their molars, swallowing the sludge down. 

But he has never seen anything like the angel eating oysters.

Surely it’s an affectation, Aziraphale putting on a show for a reason that Crowley can’t begin to understand. That  _ must _ be what’s happening, because – it unfolds like a drama across the table. The smack of lips, the grin, the raised eyebrow in Crowley’s direction as Aziraphale lifts the oyster to his mouth. The tilt of his head, the line of his throat.

Crowley doesn’t care about food, not really, but he is suddenly starving. 

He swallows the angel whole with his eyes, watches every move he makes, and is glad for his tinted glasses and what little privacy they afford him. He finds himself leaning ever so slightly across the table, moving millimetre by millimetre closer to the performance in front of him. It’s fascinating.

“You don’t want the last one?” Aziraphale asks with a conflicted crease between his eyebrows. Crowley can’t even pretend to consider it.

“Nah, you have it. I’m fine.” 

“I didn’t bring you here so you could watch  _ me _ eat oysters. I rather hoped we’d share.”

“Did you?” There’s a jug of wine between them that has somehow emptied itself, and Crowley waves for more. “You’re not very convincing. Pretty sure you’re delighted to have the whole plate to yourself.”

“I hope you aren’t  _ implying _ anything untoward.” Aziraphale casts his eyes about the room. “Gluttony, for example.” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Besides, it could just be an oyster thing. What are your feelings on stuffed dates? I’ll have to do more research.” 

“How dare you.” The angel might be drunk. Must be drunk. There’s no other explanation for the shy, delighted way he glances at Crowley across the table. “I should be offended. And I  _ would _ be offended if I didn’t know a place just down the street where the dates are simply heavenly! I mean, erm. The next best thing. Of course.”

Crowley barks out a laugh. “You know, you’re not as self-righteous as you think you are.”

“Well.” Aziraphale dabs at his lips. “You’re not as wily as you think you are.”

“You clearly underestimate my wiles.”

“I doubt that very much,” Aziraphale says, raising an eyebrow. And it’s - interesting.

It really is.

That’s when the serving girl smacks another jug of wine between them with a clatter. Aziraphale glances immediately away from Crowley, beaming up at her.

“Thank you, my dear.” He reaches for Crowley’s cup. “Top you up?”

“Uh, yeah. Sure.”

Crowley should be the one doing that, Crowley should be the one raising his eyebrow and casting curious, charmed glances at his companion. This was supposed to be a seduction, wasn’t it? Surely Crowley should be a bit more active, not just sitting and staring like a fool, struck dumb by a bit of blond hair and a smile. 

It’s not like Aziraphale is wildly attractive or anything. Well, Crowley’s still figuring out what humans seem to prefer, and it’s a bit different for everyone, so maybe Aziraphale would be wildly attractive to the right person, and there’s certainly something about his mouth (focus up, not the point).

The point is -

The point is - he’s so damnably  _ angelic _ . 

And he doesn’t seem to realize it, doesn’t notice how the serving girl looks at him with bright eyes, doesn’t notice how people drift towards him on the street, how children tug on the hem of his robes, knowing he’ll give them a coin or something sweet and safe. He doesn’t realize that he makes people feel light-headed around him (just people in general, hypothetically, no specifics) like they’ve stood up too quickly after lying down, have to steady themselves on the table between them and drink too much wine (again, just speaking in generalities).

The jug dwindles rapidly, and by the time they’re out in the street, Crowley feels beautifully woozy and warm. Though the sky is dark and the night is cooling off quickly, his shoulder rubbing against Aziraphale’s at certain intervals makes a shock of heat run through him. Electricity but sharper, a lingering sort of charge.

“Oh - bother.” Aziraphale stumbles slightly on the undone strap of his sandal and Crowley acts without thinking (wouldn’t want to ruin his perfect streak of going full steam ahead into wrack and ruin. Here he goes: closing his eyes at the edge of the bridge, putting one foot out and -)

Kneeling down. 

Aziraphale freezes just as Crowley realizes what he’s done. What he’s doing. He should blame the alcohol, that’s what he should do, so he casts a slanted grin up at Aziraphale, sways a bit more than he has to.

“Just a tick,” he says, taking the slim leather straps in his fingers, crossing them over the angel’s ankle (back and around and back again) before knotting them tightly. Not too tightly though, not enough to rub or cut. He tries to keep his fingertips from touching the angel's skin, and they only brush across his ankle bone for a fragment of a second, but the warmth still sings in Crowley's hand. 

He's never touched the angel before. He feels dizzy with it, like he's had more wine than he intended. And there on his knees, he realizes that - if he wanted to -

If he wanted to, he could slide his hand up the angel’s calf, push the pale robes out of the way until he reached skin. He could skim his palm over pale leg hair, over the delicate back of the knee to the soft skin of Aziraphale's thigh. If he wanted to, if that was a thing he was allowed to want -

Crowley looks up to find Aziraphale looking down at him. Blue eyed, even in the lamplight.

“Well.” Aziraphale lets out a breath, glancing away. “Thank you.” 

He offers Crowley a hand up, but Crowley doesn’t take it. 

“Don’t thank me,” he says instead, getting back on his feet, dusting himself off. “I’m a _ demon _ , aren’t I.” 

“I fail to see -”

“Thought I was meant to be kneeling in front of your sort.” It comes out with more bitterness than he intended, a bitterness he didn't expect, but Aziraphale only scoffs at him. 

“You are so –”

“What?” Crowley sneers. “Devious? Untrustworthy? Stained with -”

“Drunk,” Aziraphale finishes, and all the bitterness in Crowley drains away, a snakebite that's had the poison sucked from it. He lets out a surprised laugh, and Aziraphale laughs back with that delighted and shy expression in his eyes, and something shifts between them. Crowley feels it somewhere around his breastbone but deeper, in the meat of him. Something clicks like a key turning in a lock, and every door is suddenly open.

“I suppose you’d know.”

“I suppose I would,” Aziraphale says with another laugh, weaving his way unsteadily down the road. “Are you staying nearby? I’m just down - no wait. What direction is this?”

Crowley tries to keep up with the tilting cobblestones beneath his feet, and the veering conversation. They walk a bit longer, more of a wander than anything else, but Crowley thrives on having nowhere to be. Especially when someone is nattering drunkenly beside him, and laughing like a bright scatter of coins, and touching his sleeve to make a point or get his attention.

He can count on one hand the number of times he’s met Aziraphale. Some of those moments were barely moments at all, were quick glances and a few threads of conversation that quickly unravelled. They shouldn’t mean anything, particularly not to a demon. 

And yet. 

“Here I am,” Aziraphale says, gesturing to the approaching inn. "Home at last."

“Right,” Crowley says. He wants to keep talking, to ask for more. Wants to invite himself up, wants to draw out this parting until daybreak, see what the angel looks like in the sunlight. "Suppose this is it, then."

"I suppose it is." Aziraphale frowns at him suddenly, makes an odd fluttering motion with his hand.  “Your - your hair -”

“My hair?” 

“Yes. It’s shorter. You know, I almost didn’t recognize you at first.”

Crowley fidgets. Self-consciously lifts his hands to the short curls around his ears.

“I can see your neck,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley opens his mouth but no words come out. The smile on Aziraphale’s lips flickers, a sputtering candle, and suddenly he is looking at Crowley quite openly. And he is not smiling. He is just - looking.

And (hypothetically, of course) it could make someone feel quite dizzy to be looked at like that. 

Alone in his room later that night, Crowley resists the urge to fall like a tower into bed and go blissfully unconscious. Instead, he examines his corporeal form in detail for perhaps the first time ever. The bones of his wrists, the ridges of his knuckles. Long fingers and bitten nails.

Crowley is an ugly and angular creature, all edges ( _ you don’t have to fuck him _ , Beelzebub whines in his memory.  _ Seduction, of course, is an option _ ).

With only his fingertips in the darkness, Crowley counts his way over his ribs, hands tripping across the piano keys that hold him upright. Hipbones. Sternum. Collarbones. Spine.

( _ I can see your neck _ , the angel says.)

No one has ever touched him before. Crowley has barely touched himself. Alone in his room, he traces the borders of his hairline, the clay-red curls that fall just past the bones of his skull. 

Then there’s a sharp beak tapping at the glass windowpane, and the scrabbling of clawed feet beneath his bed. 

And Crowley is not alone any more.

  
  



End file.
